A Phantom's Hold
by AngelOfTheMoor
Summary: Kennedy and Bush linger in Kingston after the events of Retribution. Spurred by nightmares, Kennedy begins having fits again, and Bush wants to find out the secret behind them. AU, One shot. You decide if it contains slash or not: can be either/or.


**A Phantom's Hold  
**

**_Disclaimer: _**I do not own any of the characters in this work.

**_Author's Note_:** AU, movieverse, set post-_Retribution_. There are some slashy implications, but nothing explicit.

Not only is this my first _Hornblower _fanfic, but this is my first fanfic ever. Please read and review! I would greatly appreciate feedback!

* * *

William Bush lay awake in bed, waiting just five more minutes until it was time to check on Lieutenant Kennedy's wound. It was lucky that they'd all survived that trial in one piece, he thought. He knew that Kennedy had just entered the courtroom to confess that he'd pushed Captain James Sawyer down the hold when Dr. Clive, surprisingly, requested to retract his previous testimony. It was true that Captain Sawyer had been losing his mind, and, if he continued to remain in the position of captain, he would endanger the lives of everyone on the ship, he said. And, surprisingly, Gunner Hobbs came forward to corroborate Dr. Clive's testimony. Bush wished he'd been able to see it all happen. 

Instead, Bush had been sitting in his cell, trying everything he could to keep Lieutenant Hornblower from entering that courtroom. He hadn't been sure if it was the right thing to do at the time, and, still, even now, he wasn't sure. But Kennedy had convinced him that he must take the blame, and he had begged Bush to stop Hornblower from finding out about what he planned to do. Bush had emphatically denied Kennedy his request, but Kennedy pointed out that it was likely that he would die anyway. His death might as well do some good for somebody. Then, Bush had simply nodded and agreed to cover for Kennedy.

He didn't know, however, if Kennedy had pushed Captain Sawyer or not. He could not believe that either Wellard, Hornblower, or Kennedy would ever do such a thing. It must've been an accident. Yet Kennedy would've taken the blame, and Bush would have let him.

But, had it been the right decision?

Ah, well, it didn't matter now. Everything was settled. And Hornblower had been promoted. Bloody good for him. Meanwhile, both Kennedy and Bush needed a bit more time to recover from the wounds they had received while fighting the Spanish. And Bush, who was getting stronger every day, had insisted that he must care for Kennedy. It was the least he could do, after all, for the man who had been willing to give his honor and his life for his colleagues. And, so far, Bush happily observed that it seemed that Kennedy just might live.

Bush pulled himself out of his musings, for it was time to check on Mr. Kennedy. Before they had taken their room at this small inn in Kingston, Dr. Clive had instructed Bush to examine Kennedy's wound every four hours. Inebriated as the doctor had been at the time, Bush still thought it prudent to heed this advice.

Bush lit a candle and crept toward the sleeping Kennedy. He placed the candle on the table beside Kennedy's bed, then he pulled his covers down slowly so as to not disturb his rest. He unwound the bandage around the wound and winced at the sight of the fully exposed deep, large scar on Kennedy's stomach.

It looked bad. Perhaps he needed to rub some salve into it. He emptied some onto his fingers and then began to apply it to Kennedy's wound as gently as he possibly could.

Then Kennedy screamed.

It startled Bush so much that he jumped back in alarm. Tentatively, he inched back to Kennedy's bedside and tried to rub the salve in once again.

Kennedy began writhing and yelling incoherently. Bush tried to steady him, but his body continued to thrash.

"Mr. Kennedy! Mr. Kennedy!" Bush shouted.

After a moment, Kennedy's eyes fluttered open, and he settled down. Bush noticed that Kennedy's deep blue eyes were glassy and unfocused. It was a sharp contrast to the eyes that Bush had seen when he'd first met Kennedy on the _Renown_. His eyes had sparkled with a vibrancy that he'd first mistaken for the careless insolence of youth. He had thought Kennedy a most disrespectful and vainglorious man, but Bush had soon found out that his first impressions of Kennedy had been erroneous.

"Mr. Bush?" Kennedy whispered in a dazed tone.

"Are you all right, Mr. Kennedy?" Bush replied. "You were having some sort of a fit."

"Oh, I'm all right Mr. Bush. It's just that, for a minute, I thought you were---" Kennedy breathed.

"Who? Who did you think I was?"

Kennedy shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

But Bush did think it mattered. He wondered what could torment the young man so. He decided that Kennedy, more than before, even, needed close watching.

--------------------

Archie Kennedy awoke to find bright light streaming through the window. He squinted and realized that it must be afternoon. His eyes scanned the room, but there was no sign of Mr. Bush. He must've gone out.

Archie wasn't sure if he'd dreamed what had happened last night or not. He remembered feeling hands softly caressing his stomach, and the dread he'd felt at the touch. It couldn't have possibly been. . .Mr. Simpson was dead. . .but he'd been unable to restrain his panic. He'd been so frightened of opening his eyes, but he found that he had to. And, when he did so, it was not Mr. Simpson's malicious gaze that was focused on him, but, rather, the pale blue eyes of Mr. Bush. And he'd almost spilled his innermost torment to him. It must've been a confounded fever.

Bush said he'd had a fit. That puzzled Archie, for he hadn't gone through one of those in a long time. He'd thought that he'd been through with them. The presence of Horatio, ever patient with his ailment, had coaxed it out of him.

Maybe that was it. Maybe it was because he didn't have Horatio with him.

But he had to learn to deal with his fits without Horatio's help sometime. Surely, he couldn't be with him all of the time.

Why would Bush's touch make him recall Mr. Simpson? Fever was truly getting to him, Archie concluded.

He would have to be careful. He didn't want to have any more fits around Mr. Bush. Strange, Bush hadn't shown the slightest sign of emotion when speaking of his fit. But, then again, Bush wasn't a man who expressed much of his emotions. Except for that time when they'd jumped off the cliff. Archie laughed at the memory.

"I see that you are awake, Mr. Kennedy," Bush said. Archie turned to face him, surprised that he hadn't heard him enter. Bush raised his eyebrows. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Archie murmured as he looked down in embarrassment. He wondered if Bush would bring up the fit of last night.

"I've brought us some food," Bush explained as he handed Archie a plate with a slice of ham and green beans and a glass of water.

"Thank you," Archie replied as he dug into the food.

"And I've also secured us a berth on the _Merry Liza_. We leave for England ten days hence. I am sure that you will be well enough to board then."

"Excellent news, Mr. Bush!" Archie exclaimed. He raised his glass and clinked it against Mr. Bush's. "This calls for a toast!"

"Indeed." Archie detected that Bush's amusement was tinged with a hint of melancholy when his eyes bore into Archie's.

--------------------

Five days passed without incident. Bush was delighted to see that Kennedy seemed to be regaining his former spirit. He now frequently cracked jokes, and he was learning how to walk steadily again, with Bush's assistance. He soon put Kennedy's fit into the back of his mind; though it still niggled him, the speed of Kennedy's recovery melted other concerns away.

Then, it happened again.

Bush awoke in the middle of the night. He thought he'd heard something, but he didn't know what it was. Then, he heard it again. A sort of rocking noise.

Bush seized a candle and lit it, immediately thinking of Mr. Kennedy. He found that Kennedy was thrashing in his bed once again, having another fit. And something else. A low, almost undetectable moan.

"Mr. Simpson, please. . .no, please. . .Mr. Simpson. . ." Kennedy whimpered.

Bush stared down at him wide-eyed, unsure of what to do. Impulsively, he enclosed Kennedy's wrist with a steady hand of his own, and, after a moment, Kennedy stopped moving.

Bush returned to his bed, but he was too disturbed to sleep. What was it that gave Kennedy such nightmares?

Bush sat there until Kennedy awoke the next morning. Kennedy yawned and stretched lazily while a grin spread over his face.

"Good morning, Mr. Kennedy," Bush said.

"Oh, good morning, Mr. Bush!" Kennedy called back. "What's for breakfast?"

Bush got to his feet and moved toward Kennedy, who appeared to be confused by his manner. He gazed down into Kennedy's eyes when he said, "Tell me, Mr. Kennedy. Who is Mr. Simpson?"

Kennedy paled. "Mr. Simpson?. . . I. . .I don't know, Mr. Bush. Where did you hear of him?"

"From you," Bush replied. "Last night. You had another fit." Kennedy was speechless. "I think we should consult a doctor about that. There's got to be something that can be done to help you."

"No!" Kennedy exclaimed in a panicked tone.

Bush raised an eyebrow. "Why not? It might help. How long have you been having these fits?" Funny, Bush thought, Kennedy didn't have any fits while they'd been stuck in that cell. . .and now he'd had two in less than a week.

"It's none of your concern, Mr. Bush! Just leave me be!" Kennedy yelled.

Bush nodded. "I'll go into town to get us some food, then."

Bush had been taken aback at Kennedy's reaction toward him, though, in hindsight, it should've been what he'd expected. Was Mr. Simpson someone from Kennedy's childhood? Someone he'd worked with on a ship? If the latter, Commodore Pellew might know. Kennedy had served a long time with Pellew. He didn't know if Pellew was still in Kingston, though, and he didn't want to seek him out on the issue. It might raise questions. But Bush needed to know who this Simpson was. Then, he could help Kennedy with whatever demons haunted him, perhaps.

After picking up some fruit, Bush visited a doctor and asked him how to treat fits. The doctor gave him some laudanum and wished him luck. Bush wasn't so sure about the doctor's prescription; he found that laudanum was given out for too many things, almost like a miracle drug. But what did he know? He wasn't a doctor. Just the same, he'd withhold giving Kennedy the laudanum until he felt he had no other choice.

To his surprise, when Bush returned to the room, Kennedy was not there. Suddenly, Bush felt very afraid. What if his questioning of Kennedy had driven him away? What would happen to him? Kennedy surely wouldn't do any harm to himself, would he?

After a while, Bush heard labored steps outside of the door. He looked around to see Kennedy, who stopped to lean on the doorframe for rest. He held a basket in his right hand, and his breaths sounded wheezy.

"Where've you been, Mr. Kennedy?" Bush demanded.

"Relax, Mr. Bush. I just fancied some exercise." He tried to move from the doorway and almost collapsed. Bush rushed to his side and helped him to his bed.

"You shouldn't have left the room," Bush admonished him.

Kennedy pulled something out of his basket. "Look, I brought you some turnips." He stretched out his hand and offered them to Bush as he dissolved into hysterical laughter. That definitely sounded like the Kennedy he knew. Bush felt a smile play upon his lips against his will.

"See, I knew you'd like them," Kennedy gasped through his laughter.

--------------------

After enduring painful nightmares in his sleep, Archie Kennedy awoke from a troubled respite the next afternoon. His fingers enclosed upon his sheets in a viselike grip as his eyes scanned the room for any sign of Mr. Bush.

Good. Mr. Bush did not seem to be present.

He knew that Mr. Bush would've vowed to himself to keep a much closer watch on him after he'd mentioned the second fit. For Archie, however, that would not do. It would interfere with what he'd set his mind to do. So, he'd spent all of yesterday acting as light-hearted as he could so as to allay any suspicions Mr. Bush might have. And it had worked, or so it seemed.

He had to act before Mr. Bush knew the full extent of his fits. He remembered when he'd first met Mr. Bush on the _Renown_. After their first conversation, he had concluded that Bush was an insufferable prig. He didn't want to listen to the warnings of those who knew best the atmosphere of the _Renown_, and he had seemed solely set on pleasing the captain; so much so, in fact, that he didn't speak up when the captain had punished Wellard unjustly. Horatio hadn't, either, though, and he'd pointed out the folly of Archie's actions. He'd felt foolish then, but he still didn't amend his opinion of Mr. Bush.

Later, he'd learned to like Bush, who'd proved himself intelligent and even amiable under his closed-up exterior.

When Bush and he were alone in their quarters, Bush would frequently joke around in that deadpan way of his, the enigmatic smile he so rarely displayed adorning his face. Archie could never stifle his laughter, and he would give a sharp-tongued retort, and Bush's grin would widen as an almost imperceptible hint of amusement seeped into his eyes.

Whenever Horatio passed by or entered, however, Bush would cease and resume the subdued manner so characteristic of him. Once, Archie asked Bush why he did so, and Bush replied that Hornblower was a serious man, and he didn't wish to make a fool of himself. Archie said that Horatio had a sense of humor, he just kept it closely guarded. Bush had merely looked skeptical.

God, if a man such as Bush found someone too serious. . .

But he knew Horatio better than Bush, better than anyone. Horatio kept to himself except when he was with Archie. He didn't know how he'd become lucky enough to be so close to Horatio. . .maybe it was because they had been midshipmen together, and gone through more with each other than anyone could possibly realize.

And Horatio had cured of him of his fits, for which Archie was supremely grateful. They hadn't plagued him since they'd left that Spanish prison. . .until now.

He knew that Horatio would be worried if he knew that Archie's fits had begun again. It would stress him out too much, perhaps hamper him in his other duties, and Archie didn't want to be responsible for that. . .

And he didn't want Bush to have to deal with them, either. But he didn't know how he would get rid of them, get rid of that icy grip that Simpson had over him even beyond the grave. . .

Archie hadn't always been afraid of Mr. Simpson. One day, in his first days as a midshipman, he had spoken to Simpson boldly, and Simpson called him into his quarters, to discipline him, he said. Archie stood in the doorway, waiting for whatever it was Simpson wanted.

"Come closer," Simpson commanded in a stern, low voice.

Archie did so, but he was wary of Simpson, and stood some distance away. Simpson reached out and pulled Archie to him.

"Boy, I told you to come closer!" he said again in that strange tone. He embraced Archie, his cheek touching that of the newest midshipman. "Such a pretty boy. . ." he breathed.

Archie closed his eyes in pain, attempting to put the rest of that memory away. But he couldn't do it.

He'd never escape Mr. Simpson. Except for in death.

He should leave now, before Mr. Bush returned and could prevent him from doing so. He slowly got to his feet and hobbled down the stairs into the inn's common room. Someone yelled after him, wondering if he wanted help, but he ignored the call.

He received many stunned looks in town, but he paid them no mind. Finally, he reached his destination and glanced at the twilit sky.

The beach. Archie examined his surroundings. No one.

He turned his gaze back to the ocean and moved toward it, determined to let it engulf him.

--------------------

Late that afternoon, while Kennedy was asleep, Bush went into town to buy something for Kennedy. A book, perhaps, he thought. He needed something to pass the time in their room at the inn. Bush didn't want him trying to leave the room by himself again. There was no telling what could happen.

Bush smiled, recalling yesterday's events. Kennedy must be returning to his former self. That joke with the turnips had been feeble, but it signaled that Kennedy was in good spirits. Perhaps he would have no more fits if he was in such a good humor.

Surprised, Bush suddenly realized as he strolled through town that he wanted to care for Kennedy out of more than a sense of duty. He discerned that he held some affection for the young man.

While he was browsing tomes in one booth, he felt someone jostle him from his left. He turned to see Commodore Pellew.

"Sir!" Bush greeted him.

"Good afternoon, Mr. . .Bush. I've got that right?" Bush nodded. "Mr. Hornblower spoke very highly of you. Fine man, Mr. Hornblower. I trust you are well?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good, good! How much longer will you be in Kingston?"

"Just a few more days."

Pellew nodded. "I'm leaving tomorrow. I have to go to Portsmouth for some official business."

Silence reigned for a few moments. There was something Bush very much wanted to ask Pellew, but he wasn't sure how Pellew would take it. "May I ask you something, Commodore?" Pellew nodded. "Do you know of a Mr. Simpson?"

"Mr. Simpson? Jack Simpson?" Bush nodded for him to go on. "He was a midshipman on the _Justinian_ and on my _Indy_, too, for a little while. Why? Surely Mr. Hornblower could've told you all you wanted to know?"

"Sir?" Bush replied, puzzled.

"You mean you don't know?" Bush shook his head. "Mr. Hornblower challenged Mr. Simpson to a duel when he accused him of cheating at cards. I put a stop too that damned silly business, of course. But that Mr. Simpson was an odious man. He shot Mr. Hornblower in the head while they were taking a French ship. After that, of course I gave Mr. Hornblower permission to duel him. Only, Mr. Simpson took a shot before the count to three. Mr. Hornblower refused to take his shot, though. But that Mr. Simpson was a rat. I saw him getting ready to stab Mr. Hornblower after he'd turned his back, so I shot him myself!"

Bush kept his face impassive, but, inside, he felt appalled. He'd never heard of such a thing! But there surely must be more to this Mr. Simpson business? Surely this vendetta against Mr. Hornblower wasn't what tormented Kennedy so.

"Well, Mr. Bush? Why do you ask?" Pellew demanded after a minute.

"That. . .I don't know what to say," Bush replied. He couldn't think of how to answer Pellew's question, so he said, "I must go, Commodore" and walked away briskly.

After Bush bought Kennedy a couple of books, he decided that he didn't feel like going back to the inn just yet. His steps turned toward the ocean, though he paid little attention to where he was going. Then, he found himself breathing in the pure salty air, and rejoicing at how good it felt. He gazed into the horizon, examining the glorious sunset. Then, his eyes slowly traveled down toward the ocean, where he thought he saw something.

Bush looked around, but there was no one nearby who could help, and he couldn't swim. He decided to wade in as far as he could so that he might find out if what he saw was worth worrying about, and he threw down the books so that he could do so.

When he was waist deep in the water, he finally realized that what he saw was a body. He took a few more steps and then reached out his arm to pull the body toward him.

He looked down and saw the face of none other than Mr. Kennedy, which caused him to freeze in shock. But he could do nothing for Mr. Kennedy if he just stood there, so he forced himself to move. He put a hand upon each of Kennedy's arms and pulled him to shore.

He carried Kennedy to the inn, which proved to be laborious work. Some people in the inn's common room, desiring to assist him, gathered around him when he entered, but Bush shrugged them off and finally reached the room he shared with Kennedy. He laid Kennedy on his bed and then pulled up a chair beside him as he tried to think of what to do next. The wound in his stomach burst with pain after such exertion, but he paid no mind to it as he thought about Kennedy. But then Kennedy coughed, and his eyes flickered until they were fully open, dazed and uncomprehending.

"What. . ." Kennedy breathed. "What. . .Where. . ." Then his eyes alighted on those of Mr. Bush, and they took on a startled look. "No! . . .It can't be. . .Not you. . ."

"How are you feeling, Mr. Kennedy?" Bush asked.

"Fine. . .I think. . ." Kennedy muttered as he pushed himself into a sitting position.

"I know why you were where you were, Mr. Kennedy. Now, I demand that you tell me about this Mr. Simpson and whatever it is he did to you."

"Archie. . .call me Archie. . ." he murmured.

"Archie, I want to know about Mr. Simpson. I will not move from this spot or cease my questioning until you do so," Bush reiterated.

"I believe you wouldn't. . ." Archie rasped amidst a laugh that quickly turned into a cough. "I warn you, it's not pretty."

"I don't expect it to be, Mr.---Archie." For Bush, it felt odd saying Mr. Kennedy's given name. It felt too personal, and he found that he couldn't say the name without some emotion involuntarily escaping along with it. He hoped Kennedy didn't notice.

Kennedy began to speak, but his voice was so soft that Bush had to lean down and put his ear near Archie's mouth so as to hear him.

"Because of Mr. Simpson, I can never bear the touch of a lover. I will never have that pleasure," Archie said.

"What do you mean?" Bush asked, puzzled, but the meaning of those words suddenly hit him as Archie continued.

"He ruined me, Mr. Bush. . .he ill-used me. . .he loved to touch me, and more. . .he loved to play games. . .such cruel games, I don't know, I can't. . ." the last utterance came out as a sob, and Bush saw that Archie was now shaking. Bush was much more stunned than he'd been when he'd heard Pellew's story about Simpson. He felt tears welling in his eyes, felt them trickle down his face to fall on Archie's chest. He was not a man who ever wept. Disgusted, unsure of what to do, and unable to let Archie see his face any longer, he stood up and moved toward the window, turning his back on Archie.

"After the first time Mr. Simpson. . .after the first time, I had my first fit. Any stressful situation. . .any time something reminds me of Mr. Simpson, it triggers it," Archie said in a louder voice between sobs. "Only Horatio. . .he helped me with them, see. He got rid of them for me. Such a brave man, Horatio. He'd never let _this_ get the best of him."

Bush turned so that Archie saw his face in profile. "I would not marvel if Mr. Hornblower were to fear this Mr. Simpson as you do, if this Mr. Simpson had treated him as he treated you," he pronounced deliberately.

He heard Archie swallow. Bush realized that he was still shaking, so he moved back to Archie's bedside, ashamed that he'd moved away in the first place. He clasped Archie's wrist firmly, as he'd done the other night, and that seemed to calm him.

"Horatio doesn't know why I have the fits, Mr. Bush. Only you do. I wish I hadn't confessed it. . .Please, Mr. Bush, may I request something?" Archie said.

"Please, Archie, call me William," Bush replied.

"William. . .don't tell Horatio any of this, please. I don't want him to know that they've come back. He has more important things to deal with, now that he's a commander. He doesn't need to know that I'm so weak."

Bush nodded. He looked into Archie's eyes as he spoke the words he now wanted to say. "But you're not weak, Archie. You're one of the bravest, strongest men I've ever known. This thing with Mr. Simpson does not define you, Archie. You are more than that. And that takes great courage." Archie's face turned a deep red. Silence reigned for a long time until Bush spoke again.

"When we get back to England, Archie, you should come stay with me in Chichester. My mother and sisters will love you. "

"Thank you, William," Archie sighed after a long moment.

--------------------

The next morning, when Archie awoke, Mr. Bush----no, William---looked up at him from the letter he was writing with a question on his face. He stood up and moved toward Archie's bed.

"Will you be all right if I change your bandage?" William asked. Archie nodded.

William touched him gingerly, causing Archie to flinch. William paused, but Archie nodded to him that he should go on. If only William's touch wasn't so similar to Mr. Simpson's. . .so gentle. . .

But then Archie realized that William's touch was only like Mr. Simpson's on the surface. Underneath Mr. Simpson's gentleness was an impulse to destroy, to tear open, to hurt. . . whereas nothing but concern resided under the gentleness of William's touch. Once Archie understood the difference, he was able to relax. Then, he realized something else: he actually liked the feel of William's fingers on his stomach. It was soothing. Strange, considering he'd taken such a dislike to the man when he'd first met him.

"How do you feel?" William asked when he was finished.

"Fine," Archie replied. And he was.

William moved back to his side of the room and pulled something out of his pile of belongings and brought it to Archie.

"Are you sure? I've got some laudanum, if you feel that you need it."

Archie pulled the bottle out of William's hand. "Where'd you get it?" he asked.

"Never mind about that," William replied.

Archie pulled the stopper out of the bottle, then brought the bottle to his mouth, all the while watching William's expression, which was one of mild disbelief and alarm. He grinned. "On second thought, I don't think I'll be needing it. . ." He pulled his arm back and threw the bottle at the wall opposite of him while William ducked beside him. The bottle hit the wall with a resounding crash, and Archie watched as the shards scattered about and liquid dripped down the wall. William smiled uncertainly, then Archie laughed, and William was laughing with him.

"I take it that you might be well enough to go into town today, then, Archie?" William inquired. "Some exercise might do you some good, I'm sure. Supervised exercise." Archie caught the implications of William's words.

"Yes, I think that's a good idea." As he spoke, Archie gazed up into William's eyes. For the first time, he noticed that they were full of life, and he recognized the subtleties that reposed within them.


End file.
